


Pure and Simple

by Kitty (Katatafish), Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Forced Relationship, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Rituals, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Occult, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rutting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-07 12:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: “The root of all sin: indulgence. He who indulges wrath is a murderer. He who indulges lust is a rapist. Let that mark the heart of our family. He who idles may not rest. He who feasts may not eat. True purity is found only in those who turn their backs on the flames of vice . . . even when they are burned to the bone.”—the Prophet





	1. Chapter 1

They called it the Red Room, but by candlelight it was the gritty brown of old, dried blood.

He kicked and cursed when they tried to tie him down. Opposition had gotten him here; if he was digging his grave, he would make it spacious. The elders had more intent than vigor. They summoned two Alphas, broad brutes who bound his wrists and ankles to the table without looking at him. They bowed as they left, probably headed to kneel in the Sanctuary for a bit of purification after touching him.

 _You call me unclean,_ he wanted to say, _but you’re the fucking filth._

His teeth had put a good dent in the Alpha elder’s fingers, at least. His tongue worked against the cloth shoved in his mouth. It had been soaked in something bitter, and—shock horror—it burned like hell.

“Arthur Kirkland.” The raspy intonation of some crooked god. “You have sinned against our ways, against yourself, and most importantly against the well-being of our family. You have shown time and time again your disinterest in maintaining our quality of life on this land.”

He snorted. You had to have quality in the first place for it to be maintained. As for _family_ —complete bollocks. He had felt what family was, briefly, and it was not his limbs going numb while three elders—Alpha, Beta, Omega—stood over him in their hooded robes.

“You are selfish and lazy,” continued the Alpha elder, “and you commit the hideous indulgences of abandoning work, spoiling food, vandalizing, and as of this morning refusing to attend worship. We have found you to be unrepentant through trial by water and by fire.”

They called him an abomination, and yet in the same breath they wondered why the ugly burns on his hands had not changed his behavior. It was a curious oxymoron that fortified him.

“We are left with no choice but to cleanse you of all sinful inner workings, in our hope that this will cleave any ill spirits that may taint your soul.”

He didn’t understand what that meant, until the Omega elder pulled Arthur’s shirt up to bare his concave abdomen. The bottom of his rib cage jutted, creating harsh shadows in the flickering light. He was caught by that image, for one endless second: the pale blades of his ribs beneath paper skin, and the black canyon yawning between as if his sins had bored a hole straight through him, through the table, the floor, down and down into the hell awaiting him.

Then he saw the knife glinting in the Beta elder’s hand.

Arthur made no decisions. His spine arched, legs jerked, squirming like a rabbit in a snare. He would tell himself, later, that it was the spice burning his mouth that drew tears from his eyes.

“Smile.” The Omega elder curled wrinkled lips as if to demonstrate. “You should feel honored. After this, you will be closer to a Beta than most will ever be. And with only a few simple cuts.”

Arthur turned his head from side to side, straining to scan the dark room. He saw no needles. No medications. Not even something blunt to strike his temple. His chest heaved. What if he bled out? What if . . .

“Welcome this miracle,” the Beta elder advised. Tiny flames reflected in his narrow eyes. “A miracle some of us think you undeserving, but this proves the kindness of our Prophet.” He leaned closer, the dagger grazing Arthur’s skin. “I was never surprised. You were marked by sin the moment you were born.”

When they were done, his freckles stood out like drops of blood on his ashen face.


	2. Chapter 2

“I have read in Plato and Cicero sayings that are wise and very beautiful; but I have never read in either of them: Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden.”

_— Augustine of Hippo_

 

He’s on the case.

Not that it is much of a case anymore, if you were to ask the chief. _He’s over eighteen, he’s allowed to go missing if he wants to._ That’s what they told him when the case went cold. _We_ _can_ _investigate, but if an adult doesn’t want to be found—well, he doesn’t want to be found._

He knows his brother. Ludwig wouldn’t run away from his family. They’ve never been the type for emotional farewells or poignant goodbyes, but that doesn’t even matter, because they were in contact after he left. _All the more reason to believe he just wants to go it on his own for a while,_ the chief had claimed.

Seventeen postcards. He’s received seventeen postcards since Ludwig started his cross-country travels- neat little rectangles of aspen trees, rock formations, and wheat fields- all with blocky writing on the back. **_People have been very polite. Lots of barbecue. Don’t miss home yet._** That was the last one, backing a photo of a raven perched on something jagged and green which Gilbert feels reasonably sure is called _scrub._ It’s the only thing close to familiar sentiment that Ludwig has given him—all of the cards are signed simply with **_LB_** —and it’s the _yet_ that bothers Gilbert the most. Is he waiting for the homesickness to hit? The words don’t hint at a tone. Is he surprised? Relieved? Regretful?

This is the third village he’s checked. He’s working outward from the town mentioned in that last postcard. Then again, _town_ is a bit of a stretch. Even _village_ is generous for the place he’s currently driving into. One L-shaped main-street, a bent elbow cradling a tiny grid of stucco houses and brown-brick apartments. It’s tucked into a valley: mountains in every direction, trees clinging like soggy crumbs to a drained cereal bowl. He finds it a little claustrophobic, but he has more important things to worry about.

He had intended to start with the police, but this place is so small that the only thing in any way close to his hometown department is a simple sheriff’s office ripped straight out of a low-budget procedural. Beige walls, dusty water cooler, slowly spinning fan. Homely, but at the same time, entirely far away from being so.

“Oxenstierna,” the sheriff says gruffly, by way of greeting, as though the instance of any other living being walking into his office is one as unreservedly foreign to him as Gilbert is to his settlement.

“Gilbert Beilschmidt.” He gives the Swedish Alpha’s hand a firm shake, reminded of his late vater and, by extension, his brother. Blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, deep voice. He could be describing any of them. Is this a sign? Or is he going paranoid, like Mutti had said on more than one occasion? “I’m wondering if you’ve seen this Beta? Ludwig Beilschmidt?”

The sheriff accepts the offered photograph, folded, creased, and smoothed from tentative use, and adjusts his spectacles. “Perhaps. He does look familiar. He’s German?”

“Ja,” Gilbert says automatically, then feels silly. Obnoxiously so, almost. “He might’ve been passing through? He’s been travelling.”

Oxenstierna rubs his jaw in practiced contemplation. “The only thing people come to this town for is to pass through . . .” He hesitates, then continues warily, “. . . or for the commune.”

“The commune,” echoes Gilbert. His reserved, overly organized brother living in close quarters with a dozen strangers?

The sheriff nods. “You might’ve passed it on your way in. They have a little farm there. They keep mostly to themselves.”

That does sound like Ludwig, in its own, odd little way. “I’ll check there.” He holds out a hand to take the photo back.

Oxenstierna pauses, scrutinizing Gilbert with icy eyes.

He waits until the hairs bristle along the nape of his neck. “What?” he asks, carefully keeping his tone just short of demanding.

The sheriff finally offers the photograph. “Did you see the cafe across the street—the one with the flowers hanging in the windows?”

Gilbert seems to remember glancing at it briefly before he turned in.

“Francis Bonnefoy works there. Talk to him first,” advises Oxenstierna. “He used to live on the commune. He knows more about it than I do.”

The cafe shares a home with a general store, which strikes Gilbert as the epitome of small-town living. Widowed Omegas gossiping over tea while rubbing elbows with wide-eyed, candy-crazed pups chasing each other around shelves, and grizzled Alphas with weathered skin and hair on their faces, too far gone now to be of bachelor age, buying tobacco.

Gilbert smiles politely at the pink-cheeked Omega behind the counter: he’s short and stout in that wide-hipped way Omegas often get after they hit forty, and the humming AC lifts the scent of the sheriff from the Omega’s skin. Just that one whiff brings to mind endless lunch breaks of Oxenstierna crossing the dusted cobblestone street to nuzzle into his mate, maybe share one of the buttery pastries baked in the cafe’s oven. Despite himself, Gilbert feels a dull pang of longing.

“Hi,” he says, an old habit to make himself less intimidating when speaking to Omegas. “I’m looking for Francis Bonnefoy?”

“Uh-oh,” says the Omega, his concern half in jest and half in earnest. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

It’s a little sad, how often Gilbert has heard people making jokes like that when he asks for someone they know. It’s especially sad when they are actually in trouble. “No, I just wanted to talk to him.”

He doesn’t mention why. _Minimize your trail._ Besides, the sheriff will probably mention it tonight and Gilbert’s quest will become pillow talk.

“He just stepped out for a break,” the Omega tells him “He should be right out back. Go on through, the doors aren’t locked.”

So Gilbert walks past a unit of potato chips, a rack of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, an ancient coffee machine, and a small storage room to at last step out into the sun again. Back here, there’s a patch of gravel for what he can only presume is a staff parking lot—currently uninhabited—a large, sweet-reeking garbage bin, and one of those tables with an umbrella poked through a hole in the center. Seated at this table with a cigarette between his fingers is an Alpha who’d look far more at home on the cover of an internationally-renowned fashion magazine—not that Gilbert is particularly educated on such matters.

“Francis Bonnefoy?” asks Gilbert.

The Alpha rises. “Guilty.” He offers his free hand. “Sorry, do you mind if I smoke?”

“Gilbert Beilschmidt,” he says, shaking. “And not particularly, no.”

But Francis does mind, evidently, because he drops the cigarette and grinds it with great care beneath his heel. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Maybe,” he replies. “I’m looking for my missing brother. Your sheriff thinks he could be living on the commune, and he told me that it might be helpful to talk to you about it.”

“. . . Oh.” Francis looks ruefully down at his crushed cigarette.

The silence stretches uncomfortably tight until Gilbert prompts, “He said you lived there?”

Francis’s mouth twists, unsure of which direction in which he should direct the conversation. “Yes, I did. I grew up there.” He gestures to the lawn chairs. “Do you want to sit down?”

Gilbert doesn’t want to, particularly, but he does anyway. If he’s cooperative, perhaps Francis will be too.

“How long has your brother been missing?”

“Almost six months.”

Francis fiddles with his lighter, avoids meeting the eyes opposite his own. “Is he an Alpha?”

“Beta,” Gilbert corrects. “Why?”

Francis glances up sharply, then away again. “No reason. I assume he doesn’t have a mate?”

“No,” Gilbert says, brow furrowing. “Why do you assume that?”

“Well.” Francis drags a hand through his hair. “Because. People usually join groups like that to find other people like themselves.” He finds a hangnail and nips at it. “I don’t think you should be worried.”

“My brother has gone missing. I haven’t heard from him in _months_ — It’s not like him. At the _very least_ , I should be worried,” Gilbert says. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t want me going to that commune?”

Francis presses his lips together. “You shouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t go? Why not?”

Francis takes a long, deep breath. The words come like teeth pulled without an ounce of even weak anaesthetic. “If your brother is there, he’s safer than you would be visiting.”

Gilbert stares at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The light crash of a rotting window clinging to the last semblance of stability sliding open makes then both jump. Lovely scents waft out on the warm air from the kitchen and the baker says, “Break’s over, Francie, there’s customers waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” Francis says, in a rush. “I’m not really at liberty to answer your questions. I have to get back to work.”

“But—” Gilbert stands up.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, with genuine guilt and sympathy in those blue eyes.

Gilbert is left wading in puddles of confusion with a few drops of trepidation, but they’re swiftly lost in his ocean of resolve.

 

Antonio can barely recall the last time he saw a strange vehicle drive up the dirt lane winding its way up to their home. It was a warm day, damningly so, as it is today. He would have been shorter then, perhaps not by any significant amount, and his arms would only show half the lines of muscle they do today, though not for lack of trying. His hair was cropped shorter; this, he remembers with much more clarity. He remembers wanting it long and loose, natural curls warmed by the sunlight—but to want would be to sin, and he didn’t think it worth the aggravation. Now, when beads of sweat drip from those curls into his eyes, he appreciates the childhood hairstyle in a fond way.

The car. Those who sought recruitment tended to come on foot; they knew to leave such unnecessarily ostentatious possessions behind. He leans on the hoe he’s been hacking at the ground with for some time, and watches the car, studying the dust cloud kicked up in its wake. It has certainly been a while, and he’s sure there’s some sort of implication there he doesn’t care to dwell on. He turns, a browned hand at his brow to wipe sweat and shield sunlight, toward the house. Roma has appeared like an apparition in his office window, twitching the curtains apart as he looms over the varied allotments, and when he notices Antonio’s attention on him, he gives a minimal nod. To Antonio, the meaning behind the simple gesture is as clear as the sky above.

Antonio hands the hoe to a young, sun-red Alpha who’s been busying himself with carrying rocks from the site of the new field. “Be careful with it.”

The Alpha, no older than fourteen, nods gravely. “Pain should never be wasted.” The words are familiar on his tongue.

Antonio ambles over to the car with a light, friendly step, and watches an old Alpha get out of the driver’s seat. No, he’s not old—his hair is just colorless, and vibrantly so where the sun caresses it with the barest of touches. All of what he’s wearing, from the faded blue jeans to the black sunglasses, is forbidden. Antonio forgets, sometimes, how many different versions of _normal_ there are out there.

“Good afternoon,” says Antonio, offering a hand. “Toni.”

“Gilbert.” A firm, slightly cold-fingered shake. “Is this the commune?”

“That’s one word for it.” Antonio smiles. This is probably some journalist doing a fluff piece—they are hardly few and far between, even with the effort it takes to reach the front gate. “Would you like to look around? I’ve given plenty of tours over the years.”

“You get a lot of visitors?”

“We get people seeking a place to belong. Most who come decide to stay.” The vast, vast majority. The Bonnefoys were an anomaly the Prophet still speaks foul of from time to time, using them as an example of how easily sin can command you. Privately, Antonio misses Francis. But grieving is not encouraged for any loss, let alone one such as that.

Antonio leads Gilbert beyond the house, to the fields. Sprawling rows of corn, peas, potatoes, carrots, with people scattered among them to weed, water, and debug.

“Do you grow all your food?” Gilbert asks, impressed.

“A good percentage.” Antonio pauses to let a pair of hens walk past. “It keeps us busy.”

Work, the best purifier next to pain. Then again, suffering marks a hard day’s toil; if you’re sore the next morning, you know you made a difference. Antonio is one of the only Betas who puts in as much work outside as he does inside; Cleaning the Sanctuary may be holier work, but they can have it.

“Just chickens?” the visitor is saying, so Antonio leads him along the short path to the barn. The invisible mouser has left claw marks in every possible place; Antonio and Arthur used to lie in wait for the cat to come out of hiding, but even when they spotted it in a quick flash of ginger, they had no hope of capture. The cows recognize him and stretch their wet noses over the top of their stall, so Antonio scratches them both behind the ears, and watches as their long eyelashes flutter gratefully.

“Did you get a group deal on clothes?” Gilbert is watching an Omega walk past with a ducked head and drawn posture, uneasy around this Alpha from the outside.

And it’s true, the Omega’s white shirt and crimson trousers are similar to Antonio’s. Every outfit must be a combination of white and red, though admittedly the white tends to lose its freshness quite quick, especially on the spritely pups who spend the evenings chasing each other through the homestead. Antonio recalls when Arthur—youthful, and just as disillusioned then as he is now—smeared black mud on his shirt to spell an admirable assortment of obscenities. His hands were bandaged for weeks after that—he’d sit and pull at them to prolong the healing, foolishly trying to use his fleeting disability as an excuse. Antonio gave himself due punishment without prompt, of course, but he still thinks it was funny on the whole.

“We like the simple life,” Antonio says, then turns to address the lingering Omega with an arched, prompting eyebrow. “Idle hands.”

In actuality, the meek Omega’s hands are restless, wringing each other, rising and falling before him like a bird with a broken wing. “I . . . I have a message from the Prophet.”

Gilbert’s translucent eyebrows spike. Antonio doesn’t let it show, but his heart thumps a bit harder against the walls of his chest. “Yes?”

“He wishes to speak to you and . . .” The Omega trails off, wide eyes dancing to Gilbert and away again. “. . . our guest.”

“Alright. Thank you.” Antonio gives a slight nod, which the Omega returns just short of a bow. He’s never known how to respond to it—gratitude seems counterproductive, but a friendly smile might disrespect their whole system—so he just turns his back and beckons Gilbert.

The pale Alpha easily matches his stride as they cross the yard. “Who is _the Prophet_?”

He says it with the exaggeration of air-quotes, but his hands stay in his pockets. “People are pack animals, they need a leader,” Antonio replies, opening the screen door. The hinges let out an ungodly squawk. He makes a mental note to remind Alfred to fix it; whatever temporary solution he came up with has clearly run its course. “This way.”

The hot air only gets thicker and more cumbersome as they climb the stairs. Though Antonio is loathe to point it out, the Prophet’s private chambers have become . . . claustrophobic, as of late. Overly stuffy, with a metallic tinge almost, like copper or iron. A sickly scent, which oils and roses cannot mask.

 _I won’t be here forever,_ the Prophet had whispered.

 _No,_ Antonio thinks now. _You won’t._

He knocks on the door three times. The visitor stands a few feet back, those sunglasses still on his face. Antonio wants to tell him to take them off for both of their sakes, but the croaked summons of the Prophet come before he can.

They both step inside. Here is an extravagance not entirely unfamiliar to Antonio, though not one he often finds himself in the company of, and one which Gilbert had not been expecting to find at the culmination of his tour of the farmlands.

Bleached white walls reflect the golden light of the afternoon sun, welcomed in by the many tall and narrow windows he had failed to notice from outside the grand house.Between them hang blood-red tapestries of similar shapes, interspersed with gilded embroidery depicting strange symbols. Among other things, the room smells strongly of freshly cut flowers—Gilbert counts four vases, each of them filled with an elaborate array of blooms—all of them varying shades of white.

In the centre of the room stands a desk of dark wood, far too large to serve only one man but kept meticulously tidy despite the available space. Neatly arranged and sorted in small piles, not a fold nor a crease to be found. The man writes with a black, glossy fountain pen, which looks strangely fitting in his wrinkled, scarred hand. The chair on which he sits is the same colour as the banners, the square-shaped, old-fashioned sort with a high back and ample padding to support his aged spine.

The Prophet smiles at them both, but Antonio doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker suddenly over to the newcomer, how his back seems to straighten, or how his pained hands clench tight in something akin to shock. Even with the wrinkles collected in the corners of his curious eyes, Antonio’s charming smile is rivalled by the older Beta’s. The two of them exchange small, familiar nods; then the Prophet fixes his gaze more firmly on Gilbert to begin the time-honoured welcoming party.

“Hello,” he says, in a voice notably raspier and strained since Lovino had begun his most recent mutiny. “My name is Roma Vargas, but to my family I’m known as the Prophet. Are you familiar with our beliefs here?”

Gilbert shakes his head slowly. “Not that I know of, sir . . .” The respect ingrained deep within him since his school days seems out of place, and hangs oddly in the air between them.

“Well that will soon change, I’m certain. But, just so I can be sure, would you mind taking those off?”

He gives a small, stiff gesture, indicating the glasses. Gilbert glances at Antonio, but he has no more idea what needs to be ensured than the visitor. Hesitantly, Gilbert removes his sunglasses and slides them into the pocket of his jeans.

The Prophet’s face lights up, his mouth agape in awe for a moment as gleaming olive eyes scan Gilbert’s own. “It’s true. You bear the sacred colors of white and red. You are a truly _blessed_ one. I knew this day would come, we’ve all been waiting. And I see that you have no mate, unless I’m mistaken?”

Gilbert stares—with eyes that seem more pinkish to Antonio—and slowly shakes his head. His eyebrows have drawn together in barely-concealed suspicion, but Roma seems too euphoric to notice.

“Of course. Excellent, then the purification process will be far more simple than I had anticipated,” The Prophet stands. “You will pair with my grandson and sire my heir. Our bloodline will forever carry your purity on the road to salvation.” He holds out his hands to baffled Beta and astounded Alpha, his smile as warm and all-seeing as the sun pouring in through the windows and illuminating his form.

“Welcome to our family.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.”

 _—_ _Psalms 51:5_

 

The villa’s washroom is perhaps the most beautiful and impressive aspect of the entire house—second only, of course, to the sanctuary, which stands open and proud several floors below it. But when the sanctuary is the pinnacle of everything these few acres has to offer, at the forefront of their lives, and in many ways, the only true thing Francis has ever known, he has little shame in disqualifying it from the rankings.

The bathroom stands on the highest floor a common robe can buy you access to—with only the suites of the elders and the Prophet above—overlooking the fields to the east painted a vibrant pink with wild clover come the summer months. In the earlier hours of the morning, the sun rises over the hills there, and illuminate paths in the pastures where the pups have run through, picking petals as they go. This one in particular, more so than the others, tends to catch the light more vibrantly at sundown, casting it—as with much of the rest of the house—in a soft golden glow.

The floor is a sparkling white tile—not the scuffed wood of their dormitories, nor the stained linoleum of the kitchen—kept meticulously clean of any stray dirt or developing waterspot. The walls carry the same visage, save for a single strip of red glass winding itself around the room. A rare decorative addition, and one which would no doubt leave Francis curious of its origin if he had more time to spend wondering about such frivolous things.

There are four baths, each of them separated by a low wall which does little for privacy, and as such is used more frequently to rest bars of soap upon. Four people will comfortably fit in each one of the tubs, with the water resting just below their collarbones if they sit, submerging each of them in the same charcoal solution that waits in wide-brimmed libation bowls at the entrance of the sanctuary and sending gentle fumes into the air reminiscent of the more finely curated gardens of roses under the prophet’s window. A delicate film of powder settles on the top when the water goes undisturbed, catching the reflections of the light and appearing to shimmer when studied from the right angles.

Francis sometimes finds the communal aspect of his daily bathing to be rather overstimulating, given the way that voices bounce and reflect off the polished tiles and swim around him, but in his twelve years he’s had plenty of time to discover that the room is nearly always empty in the time between lunch and dinner—when the majority of the family is out in the fields collecting the food they’ll soon be eating, before the mad rush of cooking for such a large party begins, and before the poor soul who has the job of scraping black residue from porcelain to keep it as pristine comes to do the duty. And naturally, Francis deems it fit to notify his two closest friends of this discovery so that they may share in the calm—and more often than not, create their own chaos.

The half-past two chime of a magnificent clock, which resonates throughout the building and shakes each wall, finds Francis, Arthur, and Antonio relishing in the stagnant warmth of the water. Each of them is drenched from head to toe, traces of charcoal still visible in blonde hair and on pale skin. Blue eyes glare back at two pairs of green, his own cautious and guarded, the others challenging and playful. He watches Arthur’s hand move like a prowling shark under the water, the slight ripple on the surface the only indicator. Before he even thinks to react, he finds himself once again under a dark wave, with laughter assaulting him from each angle as it bounces around the room.

“Stop, that’s _enough_ ,” Francis whines, halfway between joking and stern seriousness, “I’ve just rinsed my hair, and I don’t see the point of going to the effort if you’re just going to make it dirty again.”

“You’re no fun—I’m bored now, why don’t we go and do something else?” Arthur’s tone is infinitely more petulant. He’ll no doubt cite that as an achievement.

“We won’t have time, we’ll have to start work again before dinner,” Antonio supplies.

Arthur quirks a rebellious eyebrow, and with a determined face which could very easily raise a rebellion, moves to stare directly at both of his friends.

“We don’t have to, if we do what I have in mind.”

A pervasive hesitance settles upon them.

“And what _do_ you have in mind?” Francis asks.

“Well you wouldn’t trust me if I told you.”

“I don’t think I trust you anyway.”

Arthur clambers out of the bath and wraps himself in one of the fresh white towels piled high on shelves along the walls, making his intent clear before either Antonio or Francis has the chance to protest.

“Just shut up, get dressed, and follow me—it’ll be fun,” he promises.

 

* * *

 

Arthur pushes through the doors like he does this daily, paying no mind to the way they loom over them with at least three times their individual heights, the ominously dark tint of the wood, or the grinding sound of the metal hinges trying to swing open, stiff with lack of use. Francis, of course, has no reason to believe that Arthur hasn’t, but he himself had hardly registered the existence of the doorway, and as such has spent his life unbothered by the possibilities that may lie beyond it. Antonio’s expression is one of cautious interest, and Francis feels somewhat reassured that of the three, he is not the only one who doesn’t see the benefit in crossing the threshold rather than fulfilling their duties for the day. On the contrary, Arthur slips through the doors as soon as they are wide enough to accommodate his slight frame—some seconds before the others even consider fitting through—and beckons them forward with a wild grin.

Clad in cotton socks, three pairs of shoes having been abandoned sometime before their occupation of the bathroom, their footsteps make no noise. Even in the case that they were wearing shoes, Francis is sure he would be too nervous to put his feet down with any measure of conviction lest the soles cause the slightest tapping sound against the cool marble floor. The threat of a jobsworth elder with impressive hearing catching their descent is one which bites at him. Each step away from the doors does, admittedly, reduce his heartbeat by a nominal amount, but never enough for him to feel in any way relaxed.

He finds himself, as is often the case, acting as a buffer between his two friends. Antonio hangs behind, his steps more reserved than Francis’ as his hands wrap in a solid grip around the banister to his left, while both of them watch as Arthur storms ahead. Showing an uncharacteristic restraint, he never strays more than three steps away from them, as much as the restless nature of his posture suggests he would like to. Francis is grateful for this, despite Arthur’s failure to warn them that the doorway would open almost immediately at the top of a staircase, as the passageway is hardly lit and entirely unfamiliar to the two older members of their little group.

“Don’t get too scared, Toni,” Arthur taunts gleefully, “I know you’re scared of the dark.”

“I am not scared of the dark,” he protests, though the tremble in his voice does little to support his claim.

“Yes you are—you used to cry because you weren’t allowed to sleep in the bed under the window, so you could have the light of the moon.”

Antonio doesn’t respond, likely too preoccupied with not plummeting down the flight of stairs to engage in any sort of argument. A wise decision, Francis thinks—after all, he has often been witness to these arguments, and there is a reason for their infamy across the commune.

Likely the result of a strong anxiety and slight distrust of wherever it is Arthur is planning to lead them, the journey feels to Francis as though it is taking far longer than it should. Reluctant to sigh a breath of relief at the prospect of it coming to an end, he does so anyway, somewhat involuntarily, as the corridor begins to brighten again, light crawling up each step towards them, and illuminating the black-on-white streaks of a particularly expensive marble. He doesn’t think for a second that it could be any sort of natural light—they are far too deep down within the depths of the building for that to be the case, and doesn’t ebb with the passing of clouds as the sun would do—but it is reassuring nonetheless.

When the light reaches its most pure and bright, they are only three steps above a flat landing, separated from them by a tall wall which they can see the marble curving around towards the right. Without a word, Arthur too disappears around this corner, leaving Antonio and Francis with guarded expressions of utter bemusement. They glance at each other for a second, both of them questioning both the other’s and their own judgement, before they both move to follow Arthur around the smooth white wall, entering a room far larger than most as they do so.

The first thing that Francis notices in the dim light of the candles that line the walls of the room, held a few feet up by decorative candelabras, is that the wall he had just stood beside is painted in a wide variation of bright tones and vibrant colours. He steps forward to properly study the shapes it features.

At the forefront is the image of a butterfly not unlike the ones which inhabit the fruit gardens in the summer months. Rather than paint, it seems to be constructed from thousands of pieces of broken glass, each of them shining orange as they reflect the light of the flames. Thick black lines decorate and line the creature’s wings, but this does nothing to alter how delicate and fragile the artwork looks, as though it were as light as its breathing counterparts. It has settled atop a large white rose bloom, the petals open and inviting, each of them gilded around the edge and glittering. The bloom is not surrounded by others of the sort on a meticulously maintained hedge, as Francis often sees them, but has instead been clipped, and rests in the cup of two pale hands, most likely belonging to an Omega.

However, it is not the beauty of the image which has enraptured Francis’ attention to the point where he is completely oblivious to the fact both of his friends are stood behind him, both of them interested in something else entirely. In the same broken glass mosaic as the butterfly’s wings, a trail of red bleeds down from where the rose rests, following each line and contour of the Omega’s hands, to flow down his wrists and out of the image. Each claret trail stems from the bud of the flower, as though the flesh beneath it has been slit in order to provide a sickening sustenance. He can’t help but draw a morbid comparison to the dried animal blood they rake through the rose garden’s soil every spring before blooming season begins, and quickly looks away as if the image has pricked him.

He steps back, and looks anywhere else in the room to avoid the strange mural. It extends much further back than he had originally thought, with more candles hanging overhead to illuminate the blind spots far away from any wall in the centre of the room. Along each facade are small plaques, their copper greened with age, which upon further inspection are revealed to display names and dates—some familiar, some from long before any of their births. These extend so far back with the room that Francis can barely see some of them, only made aware of their presence by the spread of floral arrangements which surrounds them, and the way that each of their plaques seem to have been upheld and cleaned with a greater degree of dedication.

“Cool, isn’t it?” Arthur smiles. His enthusiasm is not contagious, but he seems proud of himself for his discovery nonetheless.

“Nobody ever comes down here, it’s always quiet—which means we can do whatever we want. Something fun, this time,” he adds with relish. It does little to quell Francis’ apprehension, but Antonio seems to consider it a perfectly reasonable excuse, his previous fears forgotten.

“Something fun? Like what?” Toni asks.

Arthur answers much too quickly for it to have been a decision made in that very moment.

“How about dares?”

“No, not dares,” Francis interjects.

“Why not? You used to love playing dares when we were younger, you were always the one suggesting it,” Toni whines mockingly.

“I used to love chasing the chickens down the road, but I don’t do _that_ anymore,” he huffs in response. But, despite his bluster, he’s always been a slave to peer pressure, especially when Arthur is glancing over at him with his signature challenging expression. He supposes, if anything, it will take his mind off the painting.

“Fine, we’ll play dares,” he concedes with a shrug, “but only if I get to go first.”

A duet of nods. He decides to start with a classic:

“Arthur, I dare you to kiss me.”

All three of them are silent for a moment—Francis with a bold smile, Antonio with raised eyebrows, and Arthur with round eyes.

It’s only a second before Arthur’s eyes spark with defiance. “Why would I want to kiss you?”

“It doesn’t matter if you want to,” Francis tells him. “It’s a dare. You have to do it anyway. And you like doing stuff against the rules,” he adds, knowing full well how tantalizing rebellion is to the Omega.

Sure enough, Arthur scrunches up his freckled nose but steps close to Francis. When they’re only inches apart, he freezes, and both Francis and Antonio glimpse a flash of shyness in his eyes. Then he presses his lips against Francis’s hard enough that the Alpha whimpers.

“Ouch,” he says, stepping back and dabbing gingerly at his lip. “You bit me.”

“I did _not_ ,” Arthur snaps. He wipes the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was your daft idea in the first place, anyway, so it’s _your_ fault.”

“Nuh-uh!” Francis pouts with tender lips, eyes bright with growing outrage—and a baser, lower-creeping sort of fire. “I could kiss way better than that. You did it too fast.”

Arthur huffs, hands fisted at his sides, barely hiding that he, too, feels the strange rising warmth. “Fine, then. You can kiss Toni.”

Alpha and Beta share an aghast look. It’s not the same level of uncertain disgust they’d feel at the concept of kissing another of the same sex, but it’s close. Antonio and Francis, it seems to them in this moment, have much more in common with each other than either do with Arthur, and they repel as identical poles do when forced upon each other. After all, neither Alpha nor Beta can get pregnant, and why would you kiss someone on the lips if you didn’t want to get them pregnant?

“No,” Francis says, the end curling like the barn cat’s tail.

“No,” Antonio confirms with far more conviction.

“It’s a _dare_ ,” Arthur declares, nose in the air. “You _have_ to.”

“How about I kiss you instead,” Antonio says, to end this once and for all. He’s certain Arthur will turn his back or smack him, and then they can move on to some other game.

But, to his horror, Arthur edges toward him. “Fine,” he mutters, something dark in his eyes. “Do it.”

Antonio glances at Francis and is shocked to see impatience and _jealousy_ twisting his friend’s face. A new trepidation chills him. It’s one thing to sneak into places they shouldn’t, but this is more serious rule-breaking. This isn’t rules, this is law pertaining to the family’s core beliefs. Antonio has never questioned why kissing and touching aren’t heavily encouraged—something to do with pleasure, which must never be sought out, for indulgence would surely lead to anarchy. This Antonio knows as surely as he knows his hair is brown and his eyes are green.

A warmer green than Arthur’s, which now look dark as the deeper shadows of the chamber and watch Antonio with an almost animal quality. He’s seen that look before, particularly when they’re getting scolded for some infraction, or when the Prophet pauses to pass on some wisdom to the trio. Antonio is always grateful for the latter—just being in the Prophet’s gaze makes him feel warmed as if by the sun—but Arthur always seems restless. Listening, but thinking too. Observing, calculating. It’s the posture of the mouser before pouncing on an unsuspecting victim, and Antonio is unsettled to say the least.

But he’s not a coward, and Francis is watching, so he closes the distance and acquaints his lips with Arthur’s in a much softer union than the Omega’s first attempt. Antonio doesn’t intend to linger, but the feeling this brings him, the stirring inside him . . .

“Let’s play something else,” Francis says, shattering the intensity of the moment.

Arthur moves away from them both, avoiding their eyes. Antonio wipes his lips, even though there’s nothing on them but a faint buzzing. The curious tingle is at once pleasant and—most likely because of that—foul. For the first time, he feels real shame. It’s even worse, because he is a Beta; he should be above such low longings. His friends are breeders by nature, hopeless, but he is expected to be cleaner than them. After kissing Arthur, he feels not only dirty for the degeneracy of the act . . . but filthy for wanting to do it again.

“Alright,” Arthur nods, somewhat disturbed by Francis’ sudden awkward demeanor, yet refusing to acknowledge the way he refuses to meet Antonio’s eyeline in a similarly drawn-in way. He hesitates for a moment, first looking towards Francis briefly before his gaze begins to flit around the room.

“We could look around and see if we can find any plaques with our names on them,” he suggests. A game he knows he can win with ease, and with no care for how unbalanced the competition may be. A game which, unlike dares, should have no chance of causing any arguments.

A look of agreement passes briefly across everyone’s face, though it does little to hide the confusion Arthur hadn’t paid much mind to until this moment. Antonio is the one brave enough to speak first: “Before we start though—what is this place actually for? I’ve never been down here before.”

“It’s a columbarium, like a mausoleum—these are all niches. I think they’re for urns, rather than actual bodies,” Arthur begins to explain, much to Francis and Toni’s mutual shock. “And it’s always quiet, nobody ever comes down here. I’m supposed to be doing veg prep tonight, so it’s a pretty decent place to hide.”

Not a word. Nor the shuffle of uncomfortable footsteps, or clothing stroking against clothing as arms move to wrap around an unsettled body. Not a sound.

“A mausoleum? But why would we need one of those,” Francis mutters, mostly to himself, with a note of dread sticking out in his voice. Arthur, however, seems deaf to this and instead continues to explain with an oddly wistful look in his bright eyes.

“People die, Francis. What did you think happens to them? We’re hardly going to send them out into the town. Everyone’s here, the niches go back years.”

Frozen in place, the mortified expression on Francis’ face doesn’t change with the revelation. If nothing else, it only serves to make the chill dig deeper into his flesh. A stark contrast to Antonio, who, with the same concerningly curious demeanor as Arthur, takes it upon himself to investigate each name, his eyes straining in the lamplight. His delicate steps follow a natural gravitation toward the wall featuring the most exquisitely adorned graves, as a moth is drawn to a flame.

“These are all the old prophets,” he muses, trailing his hand across the lines of marble. He stops as a thought strikes him. “What about the rest of the bloodline? Surely the twins’ mother would be here, at least—”

Arthur rolls his eyes with a scoff. He’s been waiting for someone to ask this question—sometimes, Francis feels as if he knows that sophomaniac glaze over green eyes better than he knows the contours of his own face when he’s looking in a mirror.

“He’s down in that corner with the rest of the breeders. Like an Omega would ever be afforded the same amount of respect as a Beta— _perish the thought_. And I can only presume their father is with the rest of the Alphas.”

Toni turns back to study the Betas’ niches with a renewed interest and the same harrowed expression which had crossed his features not many minutes earlier at the suggestion of kissing Francis.

“We shouldn’t be down here, Arthur. Let’s go back upstairs,” Francis pleads. “You’ll get in trouble if you’re not in the kitchens on time, me and Toni have stuff to do too.”

Not entirely opposed to the suggestion, but not wanting to bow to the request, Arthur shrugs with as much nonchalance as he can in acquiesce.

They’ve just reached the top of the staircase that brings them to the ground floor—with the effect of breaching the surface of water and suddenly seeing a world of light and sound previously kept at bay—when one of the Elders accosts them.

“Shouldn’t you be in the kitchens?” he asks, with most of his critical tone directed at Arthur.

Francis and Antonio duck their heads—followed by Arthur, after Francis’s elbow acquaints with his ribs—but before Francis can say _yes, sir_ a scent drifts to his nose. It’s familiar, unmistakably _Arthur_ in the most basic, essential way . . . but it’s unfamiliar in a wildly exotic way. It prickles over Francis’s skin, awakening a warm rainstorm inside him, lightning crackling in his heart and his hands and—his cheeks burn with shame—between his legs.

The Alpha Elder’s nostrils flare and eyes narrow. “You two, see to your duties. Arthur, come with me.” He wraps an unsightly claw around Arthur’s shoulder, to turn the Omega and urge him across the hall, down some uncharted corridor.

“No,” Francis says, before he even realizes the sound is rising in his throat. His hand flies to cover his mouth, but he can’t take back what’s been done. He’ll have to be punished.

The Elder hesitates, but it’s a warmly paternal voice that breaks the silence:

“That’s alright.” They all turn to see the Prophet approaching, an easy smile on his handsome face. Those eyes, though: they sparkle with charisma, but with unfathomable wisdom as well. It’s like gazing up into a starry night sky; Francis and Antonio both have to look away, before their own eyes whirl out of focus with the cozy infinity presented to them.

“Go on, Arthur,” the Prophet continues. “You’ll be fine.”

Francis watches Arthur go. His friend looks at him over his shoulder, green eyes flashing with their infamous ferocity—and a hint of fear as well? Francis will never know, because then Arthur is gone, vanishing into the shadows of the corridor with the Elder close behind.

“We all must grow up eventually,” the Prophet remarks solemnly. “You go on ahead, Francis. I’d like to have a word with Antonio alone.”

The two friends exchange a bewildered glance, but, after their chilling journey to the room of dead and the sudden removal of their freckled companion, Francis can only murmur “Blesséd are we” and bow his head before hurrying off to the kitchens.

“Blesséd are we,” the Prophet returns, then draws Antonio over to a nearby bench seat. It’s beneath a west-facing window, so the Prophet’s hair is kissed with the warm oranges of the setting sun—which, Antonio is proud to realize, matches the auburn tinge of his own dark curls. “So,” the Prophet says, clasping together hands wrinkled by time but unblemished by punishment or toil, “those are your friends, are they?”

Antonio stays quiet a moment, because the tone makes him think the answer should be no. “Yes, sir.”

“Relax.” The Prophet chuckles. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

Antonio realizes he’s been sitting ramrod straight, and hesitantly allows his shoulders to slump a little, mirroring the slight comfortable slouch of the older Beta. “I like playing with them,” he says, growing braver. “We have a lot of fun.”

“Sometimes a little too much fun, according to our elders.” At Antonio’s startled expression, the Prophet smiles. “They speak often of you three. Arthur is fond of causing trouble. Do you like causing trouble, too?”

“No,” Antonio replies immediately, because imagining Arthur’s furious glare is nothing compared to the reality of the Prophet’s thoughtful gaze. “Never.”

The Prophet nods. “Good.” A slight tilt to his head. “I know things seem very simple to you now, but you will soon see how different you are from others. I think you should spend more of your time with other Betas. As you’ve seen with Arthur today, you won’t be children much longer. It’s time for all three of you to find your rightful places.”

 _Other Betas?_ The only others are either too old to indulge him or too young to bother with. That’s why he’s chosen the friends he has; they’ve grown up together. Francis and Arthur are a part of him. How can he abandon them?

“But . . .” He trails off, ducking his head. One must never question the Prophet.

“It’s alright.” The older Beta touches Antonio’s chin, gently lifting his head. “If you have a question, ask it.”

Shyly, Antonio says, “Well . . . I just, I thought this was a family.”

The Prophet smiles with a kindness so pure Antonio is warmed through to his bones. “We are,” he assures. “It’s just that some people are more family than others.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Quench within their burning bed  
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep  
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep.”

_— Adonais, Percy Shelley_

 

It takes some time for him to return to lucidity.

The cold reaches him first. With no windows for the heat of the sun to shine through, and grey concrete walls for the chill to bounce between, the thin mattress pad beneath him freezes without haste. Not even the emanating warmth of his desperate, writhing body could have warmed it—though of course, when he was in that state, the temperature of the mattress was hardly a concern, and if it ever was, it was a relief. Now, his skin prickles in the stagnant cool, small bumps of flesh collecting around soft curves as he lies shivering on his side. With effort, he manages to bring his stiff legs up to curl underneath him. His lithe arms reach out for a cover or comfort that isn’t there, and when they inevitably don’t find it, move to wrap around himself in a poor imitation of embrace.

The smell comes next—rancid, stifling, and far too familiar to ever be comfortable. It hangs thick and heavy in the still air, paints his skin, and burrows deep within the mattress. Years’ worth of it, in fact, the layers all individual with the passing of time, and each of them just as prevalent as they have been for years, yet he doesn’t turn away. He knows the fruitlessness of trying to escape the scent, and so doesn’t force the weakened muscles in his neck to turn away from the foam. Soon, he begins to hear himself breathe—pant, really, like the sheepdogs after shearing day—in and out with no rhythm, laborious. His chest heaves with the motion, and thumps as his heart pounds within. And he can hear nothing else. He doesn’t know how long he lies, still and waiting, before he hears the latch-click of the door being opened.

It shuts slowly, as if the intruder is trying to not startle the prone figure, before they begin to shuffle forward. He counts the light, tentative footsteps, following the gentle tapping noise of rubber-soled shoes as they make their way towards him. The room is not big—it does not take them long. A warm hand rests on his shoulder, skin barely meeting skin at first, but his breath catches nonetheless. They lean down to rest face-to-face. He can feel the slight movement of the air caused by a flow of light clothing, breaths finer than his on his forehead, further cooling the moisture cooled there.

“Are you finished, Feli? Nonno is waiting for you outside.”

His eyes creak open to find his brother crouched opposite him, a common sight and an age-old routine. Though, if the features were not so similar to his own, and had he not spent a significant portion of his life looking at them, it is unlikely he would have been able to place the intruder in the darkness. Lovino’s eyebrows are drawn together, his nose wrinkled at the scent, but he doesn’t bring a sleeve-covered hand up to his face to shield himself so as not to worry Feliciano’s temporarily shaken confidence. Feli reaches forward, wraps his hand around Lovino’s extended wrist in a weak grip, and lets his twin pull him up into a sitting position. He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress to help, but not without a great deal of difficulty.

Cradled in Lovino’s other arm is the folded bundle of a large fleece blanket, the same burgundy shade as his shirt. Once Feli is upright and balanced, Lovi hurries to unfold the blanket and wrap it around his younger brother’s shoulders with all the care of a parent, despite there being less than an hour between them in age. Grabbing the corners of the fabric like a lifeline, Feli pulls it tight across his chest, and lets it pool in his lap to cover all that needs covering with the most urgency. Apparently satisfied with his brother’s modesty, Lovi walks back towards the door with a heavier, more hesitant step. It creaks open. Light doesn’t spill into the room—rather, it trickles, the only source in the corridor outside the room being wide pillar candles in wall sconces—but Feliciano’s eyes, accustomed only to black for the last few days, still squint in pain from the unfamiliarity of the glow.

In front of him stands a chair. A stool, really, made of a cheap wood taken and carved from the acres of woodland nearby. It has no back, no cushioned seat. Barring the rusted metal bed frame and worn-down mattress pad, it is the only furniture in the room. To the uninitiated, it might have seemed out of place, perhaps even in a sinister sense. However, over the past four years, Feliciano has become entirely well acquainted with that stool, with the way its leg splays out, and how the seat dips from years of regular use. He waits.

A shuffle of feet. Two voices behind him, one subdued, the other grand but hushed. The first quiets, and grows distant. The second draws closer, humming now rather than talking. This time, the door shuts with more conviction, plunging the room once more into darkness save for the light of a single candle casting shadows across the floor as it is carried in his direction. Feli watches shined leather dress shoes come into view, cuffs of trousers rising up to expose only the fresh cotton of clean socks as the new voice takes its place on the stool. He can’t raise his own gaze to match that of the man opposite, however warm and welcoming he knows that amber to be. A carnation pink blooms upon his cheeks.

“You know how much it pains me to have to see you in this state, Feliciano,” the Prophet sighs. For this is when he becomes _The Prophet_ , and not the Nonno that Feli and his brother had been brought up by. Even still, he sets the candle down gently on the floor and takes Feli’s willowy hands in his own, soft and unweathered.

“I beg your forgiveness, Prophet,” Feliciano says, softly beginning their oft-repeated song.

“What do you beg?”

“That you would forgive my unnatural sins. That you would bless my suffering as deserved. That you would cleanse my body and soul of its eternal curse.”

“Do you regret lustful longings that would seduce you down paths of perversion and darkness?”

“I do.”

“Do you embrace the heat of hellfire that would burn you forever if you succumbed but once?”

“I do.”

“Do you accept that your body shall never be truly clean?”

“I do.”

“Then your soul alone is blessed, and shall be light as your heart beats for our family alone. Blessed are you, Feliciano.”

“Blessed are we.”

The words weigh like lead on his tongue, though not for lack of familiarity. The blanket is beginning to slip down the slopes of his shoulders, but the Prophet will not release his hands to fix it.

“Is there anything that you wish to confess at this time?”

“There is not.”

“And you have maintained your virtuous nature despite?”

“I have.”

The skin from Feliciano’s fingertips to his wrists has been painted a fiery red, cracking and bleeding from the irritation the stinging oil he had bathed them in twice a day had provided. A worthy deterrent, he thinks to himself, though he is loath to admit. The abrasions do not extend any further than his forearms, and certainly do not hold a presence among the flushed cardinal that has become of the space between his legs. Feliciano knows far better than to defile himself in such a way. If he were anyone else, this moment would have him bent over the edge of the bed in front of some nameless elder so that they might verify his virginity—but he’s never given the Prophet any reason to distrust him, and the pair bypass the practice. There are bitemarks littering his skin, and purple bruises on his knees, but these are negligible.

“Good.” Nonno’s face breaks into a smile, as he releases Feli to gather the edges of the blanket back around his ward’s shoulders.

“Let’s go find something for those hands, shall we? I’m sure your brother is getting restless waiting for us out there.”

There’s a door in that corridor unlike the others. This one is not marred by frantic scratches gouged deep into the wood, or by the peeling paint which decorates its counterparts along each wall. It stands on its own, a sconce either side, with little other space there. The polished brass of a keyhole shines more brilliantly than any of those surrounding it, as does the key held in the Prophet’s hand now he has blown out and set aside his candle. Only he holds the key to this door, for behind it is a cascading network of staircases, stopping on each floor both above and below ground, separate from those used by anyone outside the bloodline.

Barefooted and still clothed only in the fleece throw, Feliciano aches from shivering. With a hand placed firmly on the boy’s back, his nonno guides him up, one step at a time to avoid overwhelming him. Lovino follows dutifully behind, ready to catch his brother should his dizzy head grow any lighter, and have him fall back onto the creaking wood. For a minute, the elder twin considers offering Feliciano his jacket to spare him of his discomfort—but his love for his brother runs grander than basic decency. Feli doesn’t count the steps on his way up to the washroom anymore, but the muscle memory overcomes him nonetheless.

By the time his feet cross from cold concrete to sun-warmed tiles, he has grown almost entirely accustomed to the golden glare on glass shining at him from all directions once they’d crossed ground level. Naturally, he sheds the blanket, and Roma’s touch with it, within seconds of entering the blessedly empty washroom, and practically dives to break the facet of the ink-like water to warm his bones. The room goes silent, still, as he closes his eyes and lowers his head under the surface. He can hear the blood rush through his veins again, this time with more vigour and spirit.

Before he has the chance to run out of breath, the tranquility is disturbed as only mere moments later, Lovino slides into the bath alongside Feli, having had to spend more time ridding himself of the burden of clothing. He doesn’t let the water rise any higher than the slight base of his neck, and he doesn’t look in Feli’s direction. Instead, his gaze follows each of the Prophet’s movements. Satisfied that they are suitably covered by the black of the charcoal, the old Beta folds his sleeves up to rest above his elbows, crosses the room to the bathtub furthest away from the two brothers, and submerges his hands in the water. As though he is attempting to clean dried dirt from the creases in his skin—not that he would ever have the need to—he rubs his palms together furiously, lathers them with soap, and rinses them with great dedication. A towel on the shelf waits for him, alongside a small pot of ointment, nearly empty now. He hands it to Lovino like he is simply setting it down on a sideboard.

“There’s something I need to do,” the Prophet says, speaking only to Feliciano now. “I shall return in a few minutes. Your brother will watch over you.”

Then he’s gone.

Lovino hardly has to tip his neck in a gentle beckon before Feli is sliding towards him with his arms held out. Suntanned and scarred soaked hands struggle to open the jar’s lid, nearly dropping it as he does, but his brother is patient and sickeningly sweet about it. His own, rash-covered digits would fare no better. The anticipation of long-awaited relief is plenty enough to stop him from giggling. When the lotion is spread over otherwise unblemished palms, Feliciano nearly sinks back down into the water with a thankful sigh, only stopping himself by resting the back of his head on the edge of the bath. It is uncomfortable, but he doesn’t mind. The sweet rose steam rising from the pool is a welcomed blessing to his overwrought senses. Lovino strokes his skin with an intimate yet innocent tenderness rarely come across on the commune, but still the elder twin cannot meet his honeyed eyes. He looks only at the movement of dexterous fingers, leaving Feli to stare at the door before him, waiting for the Prophet to come back as promised.

He isn’t waiting long. A few minutes at most, however long it may have _felt_. Feli had heard his steps going quieter in a way that suggested he was going upstairs—which, if that was indeed the case, leaves very few places for him to have been going to. He’d expected the Prophet to be quick. As had Lovino, who had been ready to set aside the ointment in a moment upon hearing the thump of his imminent return. What they had not been expecting, however, was for those rhythmic footsteps to be accompanied by another pair, slower and more wary. Neither of them can decide whether to keep vigil of the door handle, or to bow their heads in expectant respect for the newcomer.

The latch clicks. The door opens. The Prophet saunters in with a complacent smile, sits on the edge of one of the baths, crosses one ankle over his knee and clasps his hands to rest over the joint—but the brothers don’t see this. Their attention is devoted to the figure that remains in the doorway, stood straight and tense as he stares back at them with the eyes of a rabbit at the business end of a shotgun.

“Feliciano, Lovino,” the Prophet says, voice warm as the bathwater, “this is Gilbert.”

Feliciano sits up straight in the bath. Both Omegas lift a hand in greeting to the strange Alpha. He only returns it as a vague afterthought, still staring at them with that alien gaze. Feliciano has never seen eyes like these, at once grey and red, intense and soft, and with a pink tenderness about them accentuated by white eyelashes.

“Don’t be shy,” Roma continues. “He is the chosen one. See how he bears the holy colors?”

Gilbert’s brow furrows enough that Feliciano wonders where this bizarre beast was found, and whether or not he knows to give utmost respect to the Prophet and not-quite-utmost respect to Feliciano himself. But— _chosen_ one? What is this?

“But what about Alfred?” Feliciano asks. It’s been a known fact of his and Alfred’s lives that they will one day unite to create the next leader of their family. As the secondborns of two sets of twins, it’s their duty to reproduce and further their lines for the benefit of the family. And now this ghost of an Alpha is pulled from the ether to be the so-called Chosen One?

The Prophet glances at Lovino, then says only, “We’ll see.”

Feliciano won’t question it, not in front of his brother. The Prophet nods to Gilbert. “Undress. You must cleanse yourself before you can be welcomed as part of our family.”

Mortification widens Gilbert’s eyes. “But—”

The Prophet lifts his chin, gaze harder than the tub he rests on. “Undress.”

Gilbert looks to the Omegas, but Feliciano’s not sure what he expects to find. He and Lovino both have an eyebrow arched; Lovino seems almost impressed, and Feliciano is almost inclined to agree. This foreigner is either brave or stupid. He’s a wrench in Feliciano’s prepubescent plans, either way.

Slowly, the Alpha pulls his shirt over his head. Feliciano and Lovino both trace his revealed body with their eyes: he’s big in the same way Alfred and Ludwig are, though it’s clear he hasn’t been subject to regular toil each day, and certainly not to any burning sunlight. He’s incredibly pale; the most colorful part of him are the blue-green veins branching across his chest and shoulders and the deep red of his ears. _Holy colors, indeed._ Feliciano traces the delicate curve of his posture, slumping forward ever so slightly. To anyone else, it wouldn’t have been noticeable in the slightest, but to the boy and his brother, both of their spines and necks perfectly straight, it stands out. The Alpha starts to fold his shirt, until the Prophet says, “No need. You will receive appropriate clothing.” So Gilbert lets his shirt fall to the floor and his hands drift hesitantly to his belt. He looks again to the Omegas—watching intently—then half-turns away in a vain attempt at modesty. There’s really no way he can untruss and get in and out of the bath without revealing himself, shy of keeping his hands cupped over his groin, and he must know that the Prophet is intent on observing the entirety of his chosen one. Alfred has already been inspected, more than once in fact as he grew up. It seems to Feli this albino has a few exams to make up for.

Feliciano leans back into the water again when Gilbert shucks off his jeans. Of course he _looks,_ because that’s the normal reaction, but he’s also not expected to gawk—that might be taken for lust, most unbecoming of a holy heir-giver. In truth, Feliciano is unimpressed. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, after all. Plus, the one he saw wasn’t quite so pale.

Gilbert hurries to fold himself into one of the baths; the Prophet had made a not so subtle gesture with striking hazel eyes towards one of the vacant tubs. Gilbert can’t help but be relieved by that. Even in his overwhelmed state, the thought of climbing in with the two Omega teenagers is a distant and unwelcome one. His skin looks even lighter against the charcoal of the water, bone-coloured limbs cutting lines through the shimmering black.

“You will bathe yourself now,” the Prophet orders, “and then join us later for dinner. The boys and I shall leave you to find some peace. When you’re dressed, an escort will bring you down to the dining hall. He’ll be waiting outside the door for you to finish. I expect you’ll do a thorough job.” He rises to his feet and, holding open a towel, wraps it around Feliciano. Gilbert doesn’t see a single glimpse of skin—not that he’s looking, of course—on either Omega as they get out of the water. They’re cocooned in soft cloth and herded from the room, both with their gazes lowered but neither in what Gilbert would call a submissive way. Feliciano looks thoughtful, and Lovino looks angry; at this point, Gilbert’s not sure which he should be more wary of.

In the doorway, Prophet turns and fixes his steady gaze on Gilbert one last time. “The future of our family depends on you. Feliciano knows his responsibility. I expect you to take this as seriously as he does, Chosen One.”

And then Gilbert is alone in black chalky water. He considers pinching himself, but he doesn’t bother; his dreams have never been this batshit crazy. He can feel the stress of the situation probing at him, like a cold wind searching for any crack it might be able to creep through. He takes a deep breath, remembering his training for emergency situations. Neutralize immediate threats. Regroup. Get the facts in order. Come up with a plan.

_Well, I came to a down in the middle of nowhere to find my brother. I was directed to a commune where a secret cult lives. I was picked to mate with an Omega I’ve never met to make an ‘heir’. And now I have to join the cult for, presumably, the foreseeable future._

He stacks those up neatly in his head, then takes another deep breath. _Okay. Now for the plan._ Escape seems the best idea: get to his car, get out, get backup and come back to save . . . well, the kids, at the very least. But all of these people, the Alphas especially, are bulked up and hardy from working the land most if not all of their lives. Working out a few times a week can’t really compare to that. Plus, they have the advantage of the single mind of the brainwashed. They would swarm him if he made a mad dash for salvation. They probably wouldn’t kill him—Chosen One, and all that—but he has a feeling the alternative would be worse.

 _Lay low,_ he thinks. _Blend in, until an opportunity presents itself. Then bolt._

He takes up the dark bar of soap and washes, but it’ll be a good while until he feels clean again.


End file.
